Heather(16)

She looks forward to dinner, to a glass of wine, to the simple, bare walls of her cabin, but when she gets home there’s a dark stain at the base of her mailbox. She follows it upward, a trail of red up the post, the mailbox door hanging open.

She flicks her Maglite over it and makes out fur.

Inside the mailbox are the bodies of three muskrats, all of them slit open along their stomachs, revealing the wet ropes of their insides.

A message. A warning.

It could be any of them: Latour, Collins, Mac. Could even be Jimmy Nichols before he came around the bar to have beers with the old boys, the man they all think should be in her job right now, getting his payback.

She takes a breath. Methodical. Act first, react later. Heaves the bodies into a trash bag. Hauls a bottle of bleach and a roll of paper towels from under the sink. Scours the metal insides of the mailbox until the blood seems to lift. Bleach, bleach, and more bleach, until she is woozy with the stink of it.

Her appetite is gone by the time she peels the rubber gloves from her hands. She showers, needs to wash her hair but can’t muster the energy. Instead she leans her head against the tile. She wills her mind to go blank but she can’t shake the feeling of Layla’s pulse going fainter, slower, underneath her fingertips. The life draining out of her face.

Her hands shake as she towels off, grabs her phone.

She tries Jenna’s cell phone again, but this time it goes right to voicemail. She calls the two watering holes Jenna used to frequent but the bartenders she speaks to tell her neither have seen her in months. “Never thought I’d say that,” one of them says, laughing as he hangs up.

An hour later her phone buzzes, but when she looks at the screen her relief is replaced by dismay. It’s not Jenna, but Deveraux.

“Out with it.” She likes him, but her reserves of patience dried up hours ago.

“Hey there, Chief. Uh, we’ve got something down in the station you should see.”

“Can I get some details here?”

Deveraux sighs into the phone. “It’s your mom’s bag. Her wallet’s inside. Her phone. A hiker found it in the woods off the Batona Trail an hour ago, about a mile from the Buttonwood Camp.”

She tells Deveraux she’ll be right there, even as a part of her is convinced he’s gotten something wrong. Why would Jenna have been on the Batona Trail? That’s fifteen miles from her house and her car is still impounded. And Jenna of all people was never one to hike.

There’s something Deveraux isn’t telling her. She can hear it in his voice, or not so much in what he says, but the careful way he’s choosing his words. There’s nothing she can do but climb into her Jeep and make her way back to the station again.



* * *



She finds him in the interview room. The purse is indeed Jenna’s, an impractical straw bag with a fraying handle that belonged to Callie’s grandmother. Deveraux hands her a box of latex gloves. She slides a pair on and removes the wallet. Inside she finds a twenty-dollar bill, a Stop and Shop card, Jenna’s invalid license behind the clear plastic pane. A tube of lip gloss in a frosty pink—Jenna gave up lipstick years ago, too hard to apply when you’ve got the shakes. A package of Tic Tacs. She places each item on the table and once the bag is nearly empty she understands why Deveraux was so hesitant on the phone.

She shuts her eyes for a second, steadies herself with a deep breath before she pinches the green glassine baggie between her fingers. There’s a scrim of white powder inside.





ANNABELLE


July 1990

You are walking back from the convenience store when the car slows at your side.

Your guts bottom out as he rolls down his window. A man. It’s always a man.

“What are you doing out this way?” he asks.

You ignore him, or try to. You can’t help but sneak a glance out of the corner of your eye. He’s an impression. Dark hair. White T-shirt. Blur of a face before you turn your gaze back to the road, your cheeks already burning with shame and interest.



* * *



You and Sabrina have been stopped this way before. Twice, two different men. One slowed and in a gentle voice told you he was lost. Did they know if the parkway was this way or that way? Oh, weren’t they such sweet girls, such kind girls. You hadn’t even noticed his hand working up and down or his unzipped pants until Sabrina gripped your forearm so hard that her nails bit into your skin.

Pervert! Sabrina had screamed, and picked up a rock from the side of the road, threw it hard against the passenger’s side door.

You little bitch, the man said, his voice changing then. Deeper, ragged, as though something rough was caught in his throat.

Sabrina didn’t blink, just picked up another rock and sent it sailing, then a third, that dinged the man’s bumper as he sped away.

You had stood still the whole time, stupid and silent as a cow. Always finding the words for things at least a beat too late. You envy this about Sabrina, her scalding quickness, her castigating temper. Her ability to draw up the right words at the right time while you find yourself haunted for days, weeks, by the retorts you could have made, the slights you should have addressed.



* * *



The man is still beside you, the smell of exhaust making you a little woozy. His car is creeping along so slowly that you can hear gravel pop under his tires, the creak of the rubber on the road.